anti-rituals
a poem on a whim
pulled to wander, that november. pulled / or pushed
(can hardly know now)
that november, stumbled into dominion. yes,
i can speak of a place
the lip of a forest
shadowed under a dignified hill
where certain men, finished with The Wait
perch in the high boughs of trees.
hands gripped. sticky
with darkly oozed sap.
they blow those midnight mists
filtering endlessly through the branches of velvet black leaves.
and, i know, You
one night of the dense autumn cold
having taken that solemnly crooked road towards home
caught a momentary glimpse of it all:
headlights illuminating in a sempiternal flash:
(one of the hazey bodies drawling down to rest upon my lips
my eyes pulled up in a silken glaze to the moon)
(a stolen equipoise / constellations of torn lace /
the hidden world of Mother’s pearly tears)
